


But What If...?

by InnerSpectrum



Series: Sherlock December Ficlets 2017 [30]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Idiots in Love, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-05
Updated: 2018-01-05
Packaged: 2019-02-28 20:45:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13279557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InnerSpectrum/pseuds/InnerSpectrum
Summary: What if...John figured it out?Mycroft told?Sherlock called?





	But What If...?

**Author's Note:**

> This is a part of the [Sherlock December Ficlets ](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=http%3A%2F%2Farchiveofourown.org%2Fcollections%2FSherlock_December_Ficlets_2017&t=NjRmODc4ZjE3OGJjNjUzYzg2NWVhY2QzMTRjNDJmOTUwMzdkOTRhMCxabzFVQjBkMA%3D%3D&b=t%3AfMPAp7-tN-90HMCNGHRDOw&p=http%3A%2F%2Fmissdaviswrites.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F167644180668%2Fsherlock-december-ficlets&m=0) challenge. Each will be its own story, though knowing me a couple may follow an arc of sorts.  
> The prompt used for this entry: Last Night / New Year

John sat in his chair at Baker Street. No, sat was not accurate. He was half-slouched in the chair. Clad in jeans and tee-shirt, soles of his bare feet nearly touching, his fourth tumbler of whiskey since he walked into the flat nearly ninety minutes ago dangled from his fingers. Though his blood-alcohol count might have indicated otherwise, he was still surprisingly clear-headed, which was pissing him off. He was trying to get to the fine spot between drunk enough to stop thinking and just pass the hell out, but not drunk enough to wake up New Year’s Day with a hangover.

Boxing Day was barely tolerable, Christmas Eve was miserable, Christmas Day itself, with seeming half of London calling and checking on him was unconscionable as he visited Harry. And what a disaster that was. For the first time since they were teens, both Watson siblings were pissed together. It was enough to frighten Harry who woke from her own stupor, only to see her little brother passed out in his.  She’s been sober since then, so maybe the massive hangover he woke up to on Boxing Day and his hour’s worship of The Porcelain God would be worth it if it sticks.

But that was Christmas Day, now he had to get through New Year’s Eve. Let the happy be jovial that night; that was not him. Today was a test, if he could get it right, in a couple of days he would spend the last night of the year getting drunk enough to not be awake at the stroke of midnight. Only his body was not cooperating. He was thinking a lot. Too much. Little things that on their own would be nothing, but added together?

_Once you’ve eliminated the impossible…_

“Son of a BITCH!” John exploded out of his seat and barely, just BARELY kept it together enough to not throw the tumbler. It was a certainty that it would have broken the window if he had launched the glass. He was mad as a hatter at the cruelty of it all. Madder at himself more for all the details he had not noticed before in his grief.

_But what if…?_

<><><><> 

Mycroft sat in his sedan a block from Baker Street watching the doctor pace the flat through a live feed.  He was not sure what would give out first, the area rug or the soles of the man’s bare feet.  Watson had taken Sherlock’s death much harder than Mycroft had anticipated. Mycroft had expected the man would grieve for a time and then move on. He was an army soldier, three years in Afghanistan, a veteran of Kandahar and Helmand, John understood death.

Then again, this was not a soldier or a patient at his clinic, this was Sherlock. His best friend who committed suicide in front of the man’s very eyes. Even while knowing it to be fake, it had been hard for Mycroft himself to watch John on the cameras from inside of Saint Bartholomew. The way John fell apart on the sidewalk was gut wrenching. It took every ounce of ice within him to shut John away from seeing the lookalike body and ruin everything. Mycroft did not agree with Sherlock on keeping John ignorant of his plans, but would not gainsay his brother’s wishes. He had someone secretly spying on Molly for a month before he was convinced she would not tell John. He had not counted on realizing the good doctor was actually in love with his brother and was only now coming to turns with it. So no, John had not taken Sherlock’s death well at all. The depth of the doctor’s love for his brother on full display in his quiet, dignified grief.

Mycroft’s utter surprise was in seeing the depth of Sherlock’s love for John Watson. Months into this forced separation was wearing on his brother. On one hand Sherlock was slowly turning into the type of agent, Mycroft always knew Sherlock could be. Mission focused, precise; only choosing to kill as a last resort.  However, once the decision was made, he was stunning in his ruthless efficiency. Mycroft had to admit to a touch of envy. Sherlock was proving to be even better than he would have been, had he liked the leg work. MI6 was salivating to take his temporary Double O status and make it permanent. And therein lied the rub.

On the other hand Sherlock was turning into everything he never wanted to be, to save John’s life and it was slowly killing him. He rarely ate and barely slept. Doing just enough to maintain his transport’s basic efficiency so that he did not fall out from malnutrition and exhaustion, but little else. He could see his brother’s mental state slowly regressing to what it was before he met the erstwhile army captain. John’s positive influence on Sherlock made all the more noticeable with its absence. Something else Mycroft had not factored in.

This first New Year’s Eve away was looking likely to be especially hard on his brother, especially with his birthday so close after it. The holidays were proving to be harsh on both men. When Anthea informed Mycroft of John’s pacing, that had started some forty-five minutes ago, and showed little signs of stopping Mycroft became worried. John looked almost manic in the few shots of his face the camera could catch. Knowing the doctor's PTSD, his depression and his tendency towards self-destructive acts - as Christmas Day had proven, he sat outside Baker Street personally, monitoring the camera feed. When he saw John take out the Browning he tore out of the sedan, because that was one thing he knew he absolutely could not hide from his brother. It would kill him in earnest.

_But what if…?_

<><><><> 

Sherlock closed the door to the condo and locked it. He sighed heavily leaning his forehead against the door. He could hear the revelers in the other units and in the streets below him. He imagined it was much the same in London. It was New Year’s Eve and not for the first time this day, not for the first time this week he wondered how John was faring this holiday season. Not good from what Mycroft is  _not_  telling him, when he dares to ask about him.

Sherlock puts his back to the door and slides to sit on the floor, his head in his hands. He didn’t think it would be this hard, being away from John. Being so careful the one time he had gone back to Baker Street making sure they did not somehow cross paths was madness. Telling himself, this self-imposed silence was a necessary evil to keep John safe. Only it was the holidays and his handy little pep talks were not working. He was making good progress, he knew. Enough that he changed his estimate to two years instead of the initial three years to track and dismantle all of Moriarty’s web. Still, these past few months have given him a level of homesickness he had never felt before, but it wasn’t the home he missed. It was the man in it.

He pulled out his secure mobile and unlocked it. Buried in a password protected folder he pulled up an image of John. It was from a newspaper, after one of their cases. Of course Sherlock took all the credit, but he and John both knew it was the doctor’s insight into people that cracked the case. It may have been a trick of the light, but John was looking up at Sherlock with this most warm smile. When Sherlock was honest with himself, it was how he wished John would look at him.

Point blank he missed John. He missed John SO much. Missed his smile. Missed his laugh. Missed the way John called him an idiot and on occasion actually made him feel like such. He calculated the time from where he was to London and estimated the doctor was should be in the Underground. His phone would go straight to voicemail. He just wanted to hear John’s voice.

_But what if…?_

<><><><> 

_But what if…?_

  * John figured it out on his own. Played the going insane card until Mycroft showed up personally and then calls the Iceman on all his bullshit. He lays out all his very correct deductions and demands to be taken to see Sherlock.



_But what if…?_

  * Mycroft having listened to John knows the doctor is not going to accept anything but the truth and gives it to him. He has not broken Sherlock’s trust as Watson figured it out on his own and he knows both men need to see each other. It’s the only way either man was going to survive this.



_But what if…?_

  * Sherlock calls the number he knows by heart. He's expecting to hear the voice mail message – the only way he can hear John’s voice. Instead a phone rings and a sleepy voice answers from the couch. The couch in the same condo as Sherlock.



<><><><> 

Mycroft reaches over and turns on a lamp.

John scrambles from the couch as Sherlock scrambles from the floor, each man stunned at the respective sight before him.

“How is this real?” Sherlock takes a couple of steps from the door, reaching out with a trembling hand, but stops unsure, “Oh god please be real!”

“I’m real Sherlock.” John rushes over and touches the outstretched hand, interlocking their fingers. “My god when’s the last time you ate, you idiot?!”

Sherlock’s breath stutters at the reality of the contact, tears starting to fall, even as he laughs at the familiar admonishment.

“You have until morning. He has to go back to London on the first thing out to keep your most dead cover. He figured most of it out for himself. John needs you as much as you need him, Sherlock. I don’t know when or if this can ever happen again – please don’t waste this time with unnecessary words.” Mycroft comes to his brother and clasps a hand on the man’s trembling shoulder. “Happy New Year’s Eve, Brother Mine.”

“Happy New Year Mycroft, _thank you_.” Sherlock chokes out a heartfelt whisper, his eyes on John only.

“Yes, thank you, Mycroft.” John manages a grateful nod to the Iceman as Mycrfot leaves through the back.

They wait until they hear the door close and lock.

“ _No unnecessary words._ ” John reminds the genius, looking at their joined hands.

“Is saying _I love you so much_ necessary?” Sherlock takes a step closer.

“ _Very_ necessary.” John takes a step closer, his voice breaking “God I love too, Sherlock. Please let me love you!”

The two men throw their arms around each other in a near bone-crushing embrace.

No other words are needed as lips meet.


End file.
